


kettle and mirror

by yasgorl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, M/M, Past Character Death, Robot Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:44:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasgorl/pseuds/yasgorl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The delivery truck made it halfway up the long, rutted road, quickly turning white in the evening snow flurry, before leaving its burden at the turn into Liam’s driveway. </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Zayn is a robot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kettle and mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Black Mirror AU, episode 2.01 to be exact. The series features some very dark themes so be warned for other eps.

The delivery truck made it halfway up the long, rutted road, quickly turning white in the evening snow flurry, before leaving its burden at the turn into Liam’s driveway. It’s a long drive, if it could even be called that, as unpaved and untended as it was. Snow collects on the top of the box for quite some time before Liam notices, sees it sticking out like a sore thumb when he leaves the house at noon to check the mail. He’s jogging down the front garden, cold turning every lungful of air into a stabbing pain, hair freezing in spikes, before he realizes he’s misjudged its size and, considering its contents, probably its weight as well. 

Five minutes later he’s down the same path again, this time with an aluminum hand truck under one arm. He kicks at the ice ringing the exterior, holding stubbornly a good six inches up the sides, and by the time he’s got it on the hand truck and trundling up the drive he’s considered more than once just leaving it until the blizzard breaks. Let it be covered and freeze solid. Make a call the next day because _I think I’ve made the wrong purchase_ and no he’d even give it back without a refund because he’s made a mistake. He didn’t know what he was thinking.

He leaves it in the garage to dry, hangs the hand truck back on its hook. Shuts the door.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Maybe.

** 

The call comes near midnight and Liam’s asleep. _Your purchase_ , the automated voice says, cheery, robotic, and relentless when Liam attempts to interrupt. Nutrient bag. Soak. _Imperative within 24 hours._

He tears at the seal on the top with clumsy fingers. Rubs the back of one hand to clear up his bleary vision. The sticker is peeling thanks to its previous exposure and the inside is packed tight with Styrofoam. He scoops out a handful, then another. Sees a hint of hair, warped through plastic, just a glimpse. A dark raven black. Long, silken strands. 

His insides freeze.

** 

Liam’s strong. He uses the hand truck again, wheels the box from the garage to the living room, from the living room to the downstairs bath. He lays it down on its side, then grips the bottom with both hands and pulls and shakes until its contents slide out. More Styrofoam in the shape of a rectangular exoskeleton.

He lets himself breathe, stares down at it. There’s more to see now, the curve of thigh held close to chest, an elbow poking out, head tucked down. Silent and unmoving, curled up like it was resting in some sort of womb. 

The inside is filled with gel, and he knows he needs to take it out and spread it across the floor and let it dry. Six to eight hours, he thinks. Then he looks at his hands and wills them to move, to touch it. _Imperative within 24 hours._ He tries to guess how long he has left. 

** 

He leaves it in the dark, laid out on the checkered tiled floor like a body in a morgue. Except fresh, that was the surprise, skin clean and pink and _new_ looking.  A lax arm that fell on him with the movement, surprising him, making his grip slip on the rest of the body. Perfectly manicured fingers, pianist-thin and long. No that wasn’t him. 

He closes the door. It’s dark inside. He could have left the light on. 

It wasn’t him. 

** 

“There are pictures of me in the living room.” 

That’s the first thing it says. Bright and early in the morning. Light streaming in behind it like some messiah second come. 

“Oh, god,” Liam says, arm flailing out, sheets twisting as he falls off the side of the bed. 

** 

This isn’t him. 

“You’re not Zayn,” Liam says, fifteen minutes later in the kitchen. His voice rings in the relative silence, a little too loudly for his own ears. It’s sitting at the breakfast table, patiently watching Liam as he fills the kettle with water, takes out a pan for scrambled eggs. 

“That is...my name,” it says carefully.

It meets his gaze when he turns, and Liam’s struck silent at how very much it looks like Zayn, perfectly so, with a few years scrubbed off, no, not age. Something else. All the small blemishes and cuts, the scars, the tattoos. Wiped clean. _Zayn 2.0_ , his mind supplies. And the thought makes his throat squeeze shut. _I miss you, I miss you_ , he thinks as loudly as he can as he stares at it. 

It smiles, tilts its head. 

“Oh,” it says, looking at something behind Liam, “looks like tea’s ready.” 

** 

He wants to hurt it. 

** 

It sits at the far end of the bed as Liam downs brandy from the bottle. Edges going soft. He’s probably slurring when he says, “Zayn.” 

“Yes?” It cocks its head promptly towards him. Curious. Gentle. 

Liam laughs, a hollow sound. He closes his eyes for what seems like a century and when he opens them he’s staring at the ceiling, Zayn’s face hovering in view. 

“Zayn,” Liam lurches out, tries to grab at him, a sleeve, his face. His hand swerves, uncoordinated, panicked. _He has to tell him._  

Zayn catches Liam’s hand in mid-air, settles it back on his chest. 

“Go to sleep,” he whispers. And Liam does.

** 

He avoids it as long as he can. A week. Tells it to go outside during the day, lets it sleep in the downstairs guest room at night. He catches it sitting on the back porch swing one day, just the way Zayn used to, sans a beer in one hand and oblivious of the cold. It’s wearing the jogging bottoms Liam gave it, out of some weird obligation towards decency, and nothing else. Liam fully remembers ticking the small box next to _full anatomical parts_ , and the brief glimpse he’d gotten the first morning was confirmation enough.

 _The fastest growing android service worldwide!_ The site had boasted. He has a heart-clenching moment of panic wondering if the company had sent out more than one Zayn, had copied the prototype they’d created with the photos Liam had scanned in and the cell phone footage he’d sent. Just as quickly he sweeps the worry aside. Ridiculous. The political landscape was too hot on the issue just now, too in the spotlight to fuck it up that bad. Plus, he’d read the contract, it had taken him a couple of hours and a bottle of Madeira but everything was legit, clean.

The bot that looks like Zayn, not-Zayn, turns its head and notices Liam. Its face lights up in a tentative smile, waves at Liam, mouths ‘come here.’

Liam turns mechanically, joints feeling stiff, stomach twisting, and heads carefully into the house.

**

Liam hadn’t gotten around to cleaning the bathroom yet, so the floor is tacky where the nutrient gel has dried. He steps carefully around it, fills the bath, steps back around to grab a towel, spreading it carefully on the bare tile. Steam fills the room quickly. The water’s hot enough that Liam winces as he steps in, curling his legs to his chest as he adjusts, letting the heat soak in, in, in until he’s warm all over and the thought of cold is an abstract notion. He feels alone and far away with the steam obscuring everything around him. He doesn’t have to think of much at all.

The tub drains with a mighty gulp, ancient pipes rattling. It isn’t until he’s completely out and shivering in the relative chill that Liam realizes his last bath towel is under his feet. The rest is instinctual; he steps to the door careful and slow and opens it a crack.

“Babe!” he calls out into the dark silence of the house. There’s a miniscule moment where he still hasn’t remembered, an intake of breath.

Then it hits him like a ton of bricks, sweeping to his stomach in a wave of nausea.

**

He hears the glass door slide open from the floor of the bathroom. There’s an almost imperceptible sound of steps, then a soft knock on the door.

“I heard you call?” Zayn’s voice is muffled, hesitant. Like it’s almost--

“Nothing,” Liam says. He swallows dryly.

“I’m sorry?”

He clears this throat. The doorknob turns ever so slowly. A sliver of light slips through and Liam makes out Zayn’s bare feet, toes wriggling uncertainly against wooden flooring.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Are you distressed?”

“No.”

“I heard you call out.”

“I said--” Liam starts out loudly. He looks up finally, and Zayn stares back patiently. His brow furrows and Liam wonders what exactly is going on in there, what processes, what thoughts--

“Can you get me a towel, please, I just. I forgot mine,” he laughs self-deprecatingly, “I’m an idiot and I forgot mine. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Zayn says, smiling instantly. He pauses, then, “where are the towels?”

Liam blinks stupidly. Right.

“In the hamper by our, by the bedroom.”

The door closes behind Zayn and Liam waits a few seconds, standing like a stranded penguin on an ice cap until he hears footsteps once more. Zayn knocks again, three evenly spaced sounds perfect as a metronome.

Liam almost laughs.

“Yes, Zayn, you can come in,” he says.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands when Zayn steps in, he makes an aborted move to cover his front, then just as quickly decides against it. He eyes Zayn carefully as he approaches, but if he notices anything different about naked-Liam from clothed-Liam, it doesn’t show. It feels familiar but strange at the same time. But the real Zayn would have waltzed in, a smirk on his face, would have slapped the towel jokingly against Liam’s thigh then snuck up for a kiss, he would have--

“Are you alright, Liam?”

Liam swallows around the rock in his throat.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely, then louder, “I’m quite well.”

He reaches out for the towel. Zayn is holding it in both hands, wide apart. He slowly drapes it around Liam’s front.

“Right, um, cheers,” Liam says, grabbing for the widest edge and shaking it out, wrapping it around his middle. The moisture is beading on Zayn’s face, like he’s sweating from a run. Liam’s eyes follow a drop of water trailing down the cut of Zayn’s cheekbone to the sharp edge of his jaw. His eyes linger on the edge of soft, pink lips.

“You can read expressions?” Liam asks. Too loud for the small space. He’s suddenly very aware of Zayn’s bare chest, the skin so blank and new.

Zayn’s eyes flicker from side to side ever so briefly, a strange mechanical twitch.

“I don’t believe I am capable of reading expressions,” Zayn replies. The way he repeats the phrase leaves a set of invisible quote marks in the air, like he’s adopted Liam’s precise intonation. He quirks his head to the side curiously, and Liam winces.

“Please don’t do that.”

“Do what, Liam?”

“That uh, head thing. You wouldn’t do that,” Liam says, his eyes skitter to the floor and he walks around Zayn, opens the door and steps out shivering to the cold hallway. He jerks to a halt on the staircase and turns to where Zayn has been keeping measured pace behind him, “And you don’t have to say my name after every sentence. You don’t have to--it’s not natural.”

Liam colors instantly. It feels wrong somehow, pointing out that Zayn isn’t real, which is silly and daft that he’s considering the hurt most likely non-existent feelings of a robot for Christ’s sake.

“I won’t say your name at the end of every sentence anymore,” a pause,” what do you mean by head thing?”

“Like this.” Liam jerks his head to the side, “with every sentence.”

“I won’t do that either.”

“Good,” Liam says. He feels weirdly let down, “well then. I’m going to get changed.”

**

Liam sheds the towel quickly in the bedroom, skin thoroughly pebbled, and grabs the first pair of joggers he finds. Zayn watches from the threshold, unblinking.

“I should probably get you in something,” Liam says. He surveys Zayn’s half naked frame. Flat chest, the slight curve of his rib bones showing through. There’s no snarky reply back. Everything used to be an opportunity for an innuendo. He would have been lounging against the door frame, or throwing himself dramatically on the bed, playfully patting the empty space besides him.

Liam ignores the pile of unpacked boxes on the other side of the room, reaches very deliberately back into his own section of the dressing table.  

**

Not-Zayn practically drowns in Liam’s clothes. Sleeves past his wrist, bottoms falling down slim hips. Liam has to fold up the material bunching at each thin ankle, bones as fragile as fine china. And the blue of his veins, the soft skin there just as if he was a living thing.

**

Liam has things to do. Like the window frame he’s been working on for a week, the type of work that mostly involved a six pack and hours of staring at plywood, willing it to magically put itself together. He doesn’t have time for this.

He makes Zayn follow him to the kitchen, points at an empty chair.

“Stay here,” Liam says. Zayn sits, places his hands palms down on the table, feet flat on the floor. He waits.

Liam leaves the room.

**

It storms in the afternoon, dark by 4 o’clock, thundering intermittently all evening. The silence in the house fills the lulls between lightning strikes like a living thing, an invisible fog expanding into all the empty spaces. He doesn’t hear a sound from Zayn but he knows he’s there. Not there. Not Zayn. Right.

Liam goes to bed with a bottle of Jack’s, and slings back mouthfuls until everything goes dull and quiet.

**

Liam just has to believe, he decides. It’s too easy, if he’s willing to let go off the little things. Ignore the stilted way this new Zayn speaks sometimes, like a note sung slightly off. He ignores the blank, blank expanse of his body. Studies his body, way too much, without ever bringing himself to touch.

Liam wakes up early in the morning again and makes tea for the both of them, reads the news, more than he’s done for weeks now. It’s a little harder to sleep away most of the day with him around, Liam doesn’t know why, so he keeps the television on like Zayn might find that entertaining and retreats to his abandoned workshop.

Zayn straightens up the nightmare zone of a kitchen, even organizes the boxes littering the living room and hallway that haven’t been unpacked. He doesn’t get distracted, doesn’t dip into a dark mood, or clam up and shut himself in the studio. He doesn’t lean over with a crooked smile to nuzzle at Liam’s neck either, or whisper what he wants Liam to do to him until the tips of Liam’s ears are burning.

Liam has to stop him every night or he’d work on indefinitely, on and on and on without Liam there to tell him when, tell him no not like that, do it _this_ way, the way you used to do it before, the way _you_ used to do it.

**

Liam is in bed with a bottle of whisky. It’s late, but sleep is an elusive whisper. The room spins in and out of focus every time he blinks. Zayn stands watch by the door like a kingsguard, silent, unmoving.

“You’re not him,” Liam says to the ceiling.

“Him?”

“You’re not Zayn.”

Liam flushes hot all over, his throat closing in.

“Yes, I know, “ Zayn says placidly, “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not,” Liam replies, words thick as molasses on his tongue, “you don’t _feel_ anything.”

“I feel,” Zayn says simply, then, “you’re upset.”

Liam coughs out a surprised laugh.

“Perceptive lad.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Liam doesn’t answer for a good minute, thoughts murky and slow.

“Come here,” he says finally, “and shut the door.”

**

Liam was the practical one. Zayn had found the cottage, kept it on his phone’s lockscreen for ages, talked incessantly of what they could do there, how peaceful it would be, how beautiful the woods were nearby. Liam had done the bulk of the paperwork and negotiations; subleased the loft they owned in the art district, driven a truck out with tools and supplies, renovated the back room into a studio with big, open windows and a skylight to let the sun in.

It had driven Zayn mad, seeing Liam with a tool belt around his waist and smears of paint on his jeans, his forearms. He brought in blank canvases by the box and churned paintings out just as fast, wild, manic, and joyful. His agent had come to visit midway through in September, emerging from the studio wide eyed, Cheshire grin, cat-that-ate-the-canary overjoyed.

Zayn would interrupt Liam at all hours of the day, grab at his grimy tank and pull him forward, sucking at his lips and whispering filth in his ear until Liam would grab him bodily, walk them both to the sofa. They’d fuck like that, in broad daylight with the doors open and the sun streaming in, and no one around for miles to see or hear them.

Liam had never seen Zayn happier.

**

In the dark Liam can pretend it’s all the same. Zayn still tucks right into him like nothing’s different. He feels the same in Liam’s arm, thin and soft at the same time, slight and warm. Zayn has his arms pulled to his chest. He breathes in and out, slow and deep, chest rising against Liam’s arms.

“Why do you do that?” Liam asks.

“Do what?”

“Breathe.”

“For the same reason you do.”

“But you’re...you’re not alive. The way I am.”

“I am alive,” Zayn says. “I think I am.”

“You think therefore you are,” Liam mocks gently.

Zayn makes a noncommittal sound. He brings one hand down and presses it lightly on Liam’s.

“And what are you thinking of now?” Liam asks.

Zayn hums thoughtfully.

“I’m not sure how to describe that.”

Liam can’t tell if it’s just a standard manufacturer coded response, a polite way of avoiding the truth. _I don’t think. I don’t feel. I’m a glorified computer, Liam._

“And I’m a lonely sad, sad man,” Liam mutters.

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing.” Liam says.

He presses his lips to the back of Zayn’s neck, a dry, close mouthed kiss.

**

Liam reaches for Zayn like a blind man. Pulls him tight against his chest, until they’re touching head to toe. Zayn turns his head towards Liam, opens his mouth on a sigh as Liam kisses up his neck, his jaw. Liam takes it slow, it’s new and not new, but it feels solid and real and he’s _missed_ this. 

He licks inside Zayn’s mouth and feels Zayn tighten against him, like a shiver. Liam stops and pulls back. 

“Is that alright?” Liam asks. 

“Yes,” Zayn says softly, “I like it.”

“Good,” Liam says. He kisses Zayn again then pulls away, sitting up and back on his heels so he can shed his shirt. He draws the cover over them both and settles over Zayn, one hand dipping into the mattress on either side of his thin frame.

“Touch me,” Liam says.

Zayn bites his lip and reaches for Zayn’s forearms first. Liam watches his face as his hands travel to Liam’s shoulders, down to his chest, curving around his ribcage. Zayn’s legs tighten around Liam’s side and Liam takes that as a good thing, grinding down gently with his hips so Zayn can feel him hardening against him.

“Do you know what we’re doing?” Liam asks.

“Yes,” Zayn says, with a hint of irritation. Then he smirks. “I remember…like, I think I’ve done this before, with you.”

“Show me what happens next,” Liam says.

Zayn nods quickly. He reaches for his waistband and shimmies out of his bottoms, a little awkward in the small space between Liam’s arms, but Liam likes it, curling over him like a dragon with treasure. Zayn curls his legs up, knees bumping into Liam’s chest as he rids himself of his clothing. Then he’s reaching for his legs, fitting his hands behind each knee and pulling them to his chest, open and exposed, his dick curving up against his belly.

“Christ,” Liam says. He’s hardening so fast he feels a little dizzy.

“I need to uh—“Liam makes an aborted motion with his hand. There should be lube somewhere, kicked under the bed, or in a nearby box. Zayn shakes his head, nudging Liam back with his ankle.

“I’m ready for you,” Zayn say simply. It’s the hottest four words Liam has ever heard in his life and Liam feels like his brain is warping just taking the words in.

“Right,” Liam says, silently thanking the many blessings of modern technology. He reaches between Zayn’s legs and presses two fingers to his opening, rubbing gently. He’s wet there, Liam realizes, and he nearly burns up with the thought.

“Fuck.”

Zayn smirks. He nudges Liam’s side again with his foot playfully. Liam rests his weight fully on his left arm, and reaches for his dick, guiding himself to Zayn’s entrance. He pushes in slowly, watches in the dim light as he feeds his cock inside Zayn’s hole, slick and warm and so tight. It’s the best kind of torture. Liam does it again, thrusts in and pulls out, watches as he’s swallowed up so sweetly. He slides in to the root and rocks lightly. Zayn makes a small noise in the back of his throat at his push. He bites at his lips, eyelids hooded, neck craned to the side so he can watch where their bodies connect.

Liam kind of loses it, keeps going until he gives one more push and gives in, curling forward with the force of it as he comes. His arms shake in the aftermath. Zayn reaches out, letting his legs fall down and open and pulls Liam to him, kissing at his mouth like Liam did before.

Liam does it on instinct once he’s recovered. He reaches down between them, looks between his hand wrapped around Zayn’s cock and the way Zayn throws his head back, opens his legs even wider with a jut of his hips so Liam can reach. Within a minute his grip goes tight on Liam’s arms and his body curls forward with the force of it.

“That’s it, love,” Liam says.

Zayn doesn’t come the way Liam does; his cock leaks a clear viscous fluid that wets Liam’s hand and dribbles over his fingers, which is still hot as fuck and Liam definitely isn’t complaining. He stays curled over Zayn as he winds down, until his arms start shaking. Zayn doesn’t loosen his hold on Liam until Liam leans down and kisses him again.

**

They have a few good days after that.

**

Liam’s rounding the back of the house a week later, boots squeaking on morning frost when he sees a shadow in the studio.

He watches from the window, breath fogging up the glass. Zayn is sitting cross legged in front of an opened cardboard box, paint spattered brushes laid neatly in rows besides him, a pile of cleaning rags, lining up tubes of oil colors in various states of use one by one, careful and  precise.

**

They’d met at an art show, Zayn’s art show to be exact, although Liam hadn’t realized it at the time. Louis had dragged him there, undeniable in his cheerful persuasion, then immediately left Liam’s side once they’d arrived to chat up the secretary standing vigil at the gallery’s entrance, making it clear why he’d insisted on dragging Liam here of all places.

Liam felt miserable. It was the end of a long day. He’d come straight from work, still in his drab business casual button up and slacks, sticking out like a sore thumb from the trendy, hipster crowd with their carefully ripped jeans and designer sunglasses that probably cost half of Liam’s paycheck.

Liam knew nothing about the more sophisticated levels of appreciation but he knew he liked the art here. There was something wild about it, evocative, motion filled, like each piece was ready to spring to life and walk off the canvas.

“Thinking to bid?” A wry voice asked somewhere behind Liam.

A glass of champagne dangled from long, slender fingers. Liam found himself face to face with the most beautiful man he’d seen in, probably, ever.

Which was why his next words barely made it over a mumble, and the glass of champagne caught on something in his throat that left him sputtering.

No, he wasn’t here to bid, although the art was very lovely, very lovely indeed. And was he here to buy a lovely piece of said art?

The stranger laughed in surprise, then looked at Liam in something like amusement.  Liam lit up in embarrassment like a firecracker.

“Not quite,” he said.

Liam didn’t learn his name until much later, a whole day to be precise. He was in shock from the moment the lad slipped his hand into Liam’s and tugged him towards the door. Liam barely had the chance to look over at Louis, all exaggerated winks and thumbs up signs, before they were out in the damp summer evening, the gorgeous bloke holding his hand waving down a cab, climbing in with a whispered invitation and a sly smile.

They went to Liam’s place, with Liam manically attempting to stretch his memory back to _did he leave anything embarrassing lying around_ , and _fuck where was that box of condoms he’d bought light-years ago in his desolate love life_.

“What’s your name?” Liam asked breathlessly in the elevator, between long kisses against supple lips, nimble fingers tugging at his belt.

“Javadd,” the stranger said with a smile, pressing his lithe body against Liam’s as numbers lit up one by one above them. It was the longest ten story ride of Liam’s life.

It turned out fine, afterwards. Javadd gave the studio a single sweep of his eyes, while Liam offered tea and attempted to unobtrusively nudge an empty cereal box on the floor under the coffee table. Then he unceremoniously pushed Liam down on the futon and dropped to his knees, right in the space between Liam’s open legs, hands sliding up Liam’s thighs.

“You alright, mate?” Javadd asked.

If Liam had an answer formulated he immediately lost it as Javadd’s hands made their way to Liam’s crotch, one rubbing at the visible bulge chubbing up in his slacks and the other went to the belt buckle at his navel.

Liam gave a jerky nod, kept staring at the beautiful creature ready to suck him off like he was an apparition from a dream.

“Not much of a talker,” Javadd said. Liam’s reply was lost in a moan as Javadd pulled him out of his slacks and pressed soft, wet lips at the tip of Liam’s dick.  Even as he watched Javadd lick out with the flat of his tongue, watched the way his thick lashes swept down as he mouthed along the underside, Liam was sure it was all just a big joke. Any second now Javadd was going to call it off, and Liam would return to having the worst day ever, just like every other day.

“Is this real?” Liam found himself saying before he could stop himself.

Javadd pulled off and laughed. He gave Liam’s quickly fattening dick a gentle squeeze with his hand that left Liam feeling faint, a tiny whine escaping from his throat.

“Of course its real mate,” Javadd said, “unless you don’t want it to be, real like. You’ve got a fantasy in mind?”

“Uh no, not at all, this is kind of...perfect,” Liam finished lamely, blushing to his roots. He reached out with a tentative hand, cupping the sharp edge of his jaw to his head, sinking his fingers into soft hair.

“That’s it,” Javadd said encouragingly, then leaned down to lick at Liam again. Whatever doubts Liam had left were quickly dispelled.

**

Liam finishes off the last of the whisky by the late hours of the night. He stumbles down an hour later, the staircase swaying underneath his feet like a ship in a storm.

“Get out,” he slurs once he’s reached the bottom. His foot catches on the rug there and it slides forward a few inches. His head is too heavy for his body, unwieldy. The living room to his left is empty, dark. He turns instead to the kitchen and finds Zayn there, seated at the dining room table, straight backed and oblivious.

“You,” Liam says. He jabs his finger out in the air, and it follows its own path, veering to the left.

“Get out of my house,” Liam says.

Zayn turns, looks out the darkened window. Lightning flashes and illuminates his face. The sharp of his nose, eyebrows drawn together, frightened. He looks unearthly beautiful, and Liam wants to scream at him, to drag him by his collar or kiss him, to make him whole again.

“It’s snowing,” Zayn says.

“I don’t care. I want you out. Right now, right this instance.”

Zayn obeys. The room fills with the sound of the wind outside as the door opens then falls into a soft hush just as quickly. The kitchen clock ticks on, inexorable, a silent witness.

Beyond that, silence. Liam sinks into the emptied chair. The seat is slightly warm. He presses his hands where Zayns’ were, lowers his neck, rests his head down on the flat of the table.

**

The card on the empty pillow next to Liam the next morning had read ‘Zayn Javadd Malik’ in thin sans serif font, a number underneath, and ‘Call Me’ handwritten to the side in a spidery, hastily written scrawl.

**

So, Liam called.

**

Liam wakes with a taste like road kill on his tongue, thick and furry. His cheek is numb where it’s smashed against the kitchen table.

He runs most of the way in threadbare slippers. The frozen ground bites at the soles of his feet. He finds Zayn at the very end of the dirt road, facing the open gate. Straight-backed and rigid, frost a spiky film dotting pale skin.

Zayn turns as Liam reaches his side, . Liam’s breath materializes in bursts as he tries to catch his breath, reaches out for Zayn’s shoulder, his arm, his wrist, pulling him home.

**

Liam doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t want to know. He knows. It doesn’t matter.

He strips Zayn down in front of the fire and wipes him dry. He kisses the skin that’s perfectly human, or close enough, and his, and he’s allowed this. The arch of Zayn’s neck, his collarbone, the dip at his navel, the inside of his palm.

**

They’d been in the house a week. _Miserable winter._ The warmest winter of Liam’s life, in a cottage that was just theirs, in the hush and love they created.

Zayn needed to make just one more run, in the dark, a blizzard, he’d be alright, _you’ll worry your head off, Liam._

_I’ll be just fine._


End file.
